


Promise

by icylook



Series: Vergil Surana [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Grey Wardens, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Origins Spoilers, Panic Attacks, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icylook/pseuds/icylook
Summary: Warden Vergil Surana's worldstate.Saskia Tabris origins, or what happened in the alienage, when Duncan was somewhere else to get his recruit.
Relationships: Nelaros/Female Tabris (Dragon Age)
Series: Vergil Surana [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615327
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Getting married isn’t so horrible as some people paint it, she thinks, smoothing the fabric of her dress. The sleeves around her arms are a bit too tight when she moves them, the skirt too flowy and open, even if it’s long. It makes her legs oddly bare and she glances at the chest with her clothes with longing. No trousers allowed today, the bride can’t show up to her own wedding in anything other than pretty dress. Her shoulders slump and she sighs softly, but straightens herself when Shianni’s voice nears. She can’t help but smile when she barges in without knocking, already dressed in her best with hands full of flowers.

“I’ve got your flower crown, now bend down a little so I can put it on you.” Saskia does so without a word, as she knows it’s pointless to even try to argue, because Shianni will have her way. 

“Did you make it?” She glances at the flowers weaved together, petals vibrant and fresh. Some of them she can recognize, some she’s not sure she’s ever seen. There’s no time to take a closer look as Shanni gestures for her to not move as she pins it on spot with few well placed braids of Saskia’s own hair. 

“Of course I did, you can thank me later with details about your wedding night.” She winks and keeps chattering while making sure everything’s in place.

* * *

The squeeze of his hand is strong, but not forceful. Callused fingers wrap around her own, and he doesn’t even blink at the roughness of her skin. Inwardly, she’s relieved that he didn’t turn on his heel as soon as he saw her, standing as high as him, the width of her shoulders only a shy shorter than his. Clear grey eyes don’t look away from her face when Soris and his fiancee make their introductions and she tries not to fidget too much under the stare, boldly looking back. Her gaze slips over his face, liking the line of his jaw and wondering if his fair hair is as soft as it looks.

When he asks her if she’s nervous, she blurts, “Not really, not when you’re here.” A light blush dusts his cheeks and he smiles. He has dimples, she notices, somehow awed by the detail. Suddenly mortified by the lack of filter, she bites her tongue, shifting, mouth opening with apology, when he says, “I’m glad. I'll spend every waking moment learning to make you happy.”

Words are cheap, she knows that. But with the way Nelaros says it, warm conviction in his voice, she wants to believe him.

* * *

She tries not to flinch when another scream pierces the air, the sounds of struggle, growl and cut out whimper. A thud of a body when it falls down on the carpeted floor, loud drunken mirth and slurred curses mixing with cries of pain. The room swims a bit, strong hit to her head painting her vision in red, the cut on her brow flowing freely with blood. 

She squeezes her eyes when the blade on her face pushes on the skin of her cheekbone, breaking it and she bites at her lip, as blood starts to leak, dripping down her already ruined dress. Foul breath hits her nose, stronger than the scent of iron, when the man leans closer, the grip on her jaw tightening. Making her bruises flare up and she grunts, teeth grinding. He laughs at her. 

“That’s what happens to bitches that try to fight back.” He leers, and she can’t lean back with the way his hand tangles in her hair, flower crown long crushed and forgotten. Scattered petals litter the floor, small droplets of blood shiny in the light of torches. 

“Do that again and I’ll stick this into other redhead.” He hisses with sharp smile, too sharp for a drunk and her hands curl into fists. A glance at her right and she sees _her_ , clothes in tatters, cuts on her pale skin. She’s curled on her side next to the bed, unmoving, like a discarded toy. She doesn’t look at the bed, she _can’t_ or she’ll do something stupid. Again. 

_Don’t move, don’t lunge at him._

The man jerks her head further back and she can’t help the noise leaving her throat, the blade slicing down, the hot feel of skin being open and having her hair almost ripped out of her scalp make her eyes water.

She could crush his throat just now, with the way he looms over her, one quick jab and he’d falter, let her go as he’d start to choke. Then she’d grab the dagger, slice open his neck so he wouldn’t move again and jump at the one on the bed. Stab him in the back, but not the nape, she won’t risk the blade sticking in the bone, but if she could cut his spine... Then the last one, it’d be the most difficult, because he’d yell for guards and get to weapons. She could have the chance to wound him, but probably not kill. She wouldn’t have the time. 

And then what? They’d slaughter them all, because she dared to put mad dogs to death they deserved. They’d come after others. 

She’d doom them all. No one would come to save the elves. 

Humans always want more and more and _more._ More power, more blood, more people under their heels.

Their lives matter nothing to them. Who would lift a hand on the Arl’s son? An elven woman? What could one woman do, when others were this close to become lifeless corpses they’d just throw out to the sewers, if she’d resist again?

_Nothing._

She’d kill them.

She’d have their blood on her hands, just as she has her own right now. 

Endure and then forget, Valora said. That was before Nola was killed, because she didn’t want to endure. 

She doesn’t want that either, but that choice was taken from her long time ago.

* * *

It’s silly to focus on, but Saskia’s sure Nelaros won’t want to go through the ceremony, that he’ll just tell Valendrian to cancel all arrangements and go back to Highever with the first caravan travelling there. Not when he’ll see the aftermath, the group of them battered and bruised, limping through the gates of alienage, deep in night. Hiding their pain and shame in the dark, leaning on each other. Someone’s sobbing quietly, she doesn’t know who, she just tries to make one step and the next, Shianni’s weight heavy on her shoulder, but she doesn't let go of her side, just as Shianni’s fingers desperately claw at her waist. 

There’s someone at the gates and she stops abruptly, holding her cousin a step behind her. Soris' distressed voice makes her shoulders drop, a wave of exhaustion making her swoon. Saskia flinches when he reaches for her, his expression falling over, as he takes a proper look at them, all barely visible in the light of one lone torch at the gate. Her stomach drops as she can’t see Nelaros, and something must have appeared on her face when Soris gently gestures for them to keep moving, worriedly glancing at Shianni and her. Others silently go to their houses, shadows of lively people they were just this morning. Feels like a lifetime ago. 

He awkwardly offers his arm to Valora and she silently wraps her own with his.

“Cyrion wanted to wait for you with me, but someone had to watch over Nelaros.” He rubs at his neck, voice cracking as he speaks. “When you got… taken, he was loud, demanding we take you back. _Too loud_ for others. He got into a fight and got knocked out pretty hard. I-I wanted to help him and well,” Soris bites at his cheek, glancing at Saskia. “All I could do is to cover. I’m useless.” He whispers with a sniff and Saskia doesn’t have the strength to say that no, he isn’t useless, at least he tried to do something. So she just rests her hand on his shoulder and squeezes. He stares at her, eyes wide and wet, and any other day she would flick him on the nose calling him a crybaby and tease him until he’s too distracted and forgets he was about to cry. 

But now she just shakes her head, grey eyes full of sorrow and just drags her silent cousin to their home.

* * *

A week later, Nelaros is still there. 

He stays and first day after he wakes up from his slumber, asks for her _forgiveness._

She’s taken aback when he starts to plead for another chance. She’s sure it’s his pride talking and she refuses to go with the wedding ceremony, until he hears what exactly happened. But Saskia has to put herself together and it’s few days later she steels herself for rejection, talking around lump in her throat, but she pushes the words out of her throat. She has to do it now, yet it’ll fester and she wouldn’t be able to forget. Better to chop it down quickly, give him and herself the chance to end it as cleanly as possible. 

She doesn’t want him treating her like she’s made of glass. 

She doesn’t want his _pity_ , she hisses, when he looks at her with such pained gentleness, otherwise respecting the distance she put between them. Wringing her hands in her lap and fighting with the stutter in her words. But the boiling anger resurfaces, overthrowing her unnatural calm, makes her shake and she tries to walk it off, the walls of their small kitchen closing in on her. 

She can’t breathe.

She’s drowning.

Her skin itches and she digs into the meat of her arms, until the pain keeps her up.

* * *

He sits with her on the floor, his arms around her as she just stares at old dirt pressed into the wood.

His hair tickles her nose when she shifts, the clean scent of his soap filling her lungs, her breathing slow and measured. The rush of blood in her veins, making her head spin earlier, already under control. He helped her calm down. He reached for her when she fell. He wanted to stay.

Nelaros’ hands rub at her back unhurriedly, the touch light and tentative. But she doesn’t shy away from it, so he just does that without a word. He talked to her earlier, now he waits for her answer. Patiently. Without rush. 

“It’ll scar ugly.” She rasps, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, and the wound on her cheek and jaw throbs with her pulse speeding up again. 

His embrace tightens for a moment as he whispers straight to her ear. “You’ll never be ugly to me.” 

Saskia rubs her head over the fabric of his shirt, not so gently pressing on his clavicle. He only huffs, waiting.

She sits back on her knees and he lets her lean away. “I can't cook.”

“I can cook.”

“I know how to wield a weapon.” Nelaros’s eyes widen a bit, but he smiles, slowly wrapping his hands over hers.

“I do too. A bit.”

Her brows furrow, “You don’t understand. I had real training, I know how to use a sword and kill a man.”

“Did you?”

She blinks, “What?”

“Did you kill a man?” He asks patiently, squeezing her hands when she looks away. “Saskia. Look at me, please.” She does so with a scowl, that softens when he doesn't pull away. She knows what he’s thinking about. She had a chance to do it and she didn’t. She can only brag about a skill she doesn’t use. Her shoulders slump, head bowing.

“You could have chosen to do it and you didn’t, because you weren’t alone. You’re much stronger than I am. When you were taken, I-,” he glances down at their hands. “I was so furious no one was doing anything. Still am.” 

“I was ready to fling myself at nearest city guard and steal his sword, storm the castle all by myself so I could save you. I’d probably get killed after I’d put down my first guard.” 

“I can’t imagine what you went through, but you _survived._ And now it’s all that matters. So please,” Nelaros brings her hands up, brushing his lips over her knuckles and she holds her breath in, kneeling on the hard floor between his spread thighs. “Let me fulfil my promise. Don’t send me away.”

_“I'll spend every waking moment learning to make you happy.”_


	2. Chapter 2

They sleep in one bed, because there’s really no other way for Nelaros to sleep somewhere else, even if he offered to take the floor. Their house isn’t big, and they share it with Cyrion and Shianni, thin, moth-eaten curtains give some illusion of privacy between spaces, but that’s it. Something Nelaros promised to fix as soon as he’d get his hands on pieces of wooden boards. 

Being aware that the one lying beside her isn’t her cousin makes her nervous, and she tries to keep still to not wake Nelaros up.

Saskia barely gets a wink of sleep that night. It turns out that both of them are grumpy and sleep deprived, looking at the shades under their eyes in the morning. They both awkwardly smile at each other, like they’re sharing a private joke.

* * *

He gets a job at smithy as a helper, she goes to her usual jobs, juggling between the market where she helps carry the crates with stuff or sorting things in that magical shop owned by a weird human mage. No one really stayed long at the shop, creeped out by the seemingly emotionless man, but she likes the place and the owner isn’t as scary for her. Even if his dull tone _is_ making her skin prickle with goosebumps sometimes. But he pays her and doesn’t harass her. She just regrets she can’t work there full time.

But coming back to a warm house and her husband is worth every hardship, she finds.

They stop being so tense when it comes to bedtime, slowly getting used to each other in one bed. They don’t cross an unspoken line, not yet, but it doesn’t stop them to wake up tangled in each other's limbs most mornings.

* * *

Sometimes she wakes up in sweat, breathing short. Nelaros lets go of her immediately, if he has her in his arms and doesn’t ask, until she’s ready to come back to lie down beside him again.

One night she bolts out of the bed, running to the kitchen and scaring her father sleeping near the fireplace when she holds a knife, her eyes wild.

Nelaros approaches slowly, hands wide and open, but she doesn’t attack any of them. Instead she takes a fistful of her hair and chops it down.

Later, Saskia lets him help her trim the ends. 

* * *

There’s word about Blight. 

Hushed whispers about King’s forces betrayed by Grey Wardens. 

About monsters poisoning the land and eating innocents. 

The last one isn’t so new, she thinks looking over prices of fish on the market, hitching the basket on her hip when she haggles. Nobles aren’t exactly _new_ monsters. 

Darkspawn? At least they could be killed and dealt with without one being executed.

* * *

Their first kiss doesn’t happen until three months after their marriage. There are pecks on the cheek for goodbye or welcome, brush of lips on her hand or his shoulder when she wakes up in his embrace, but nothing other than that. It’s by accident, Saskia coming back from the market, tired after a day of noisy, demanding humans, yelling at her to pack or unpack this or that and she aims for a kiss to Nelaros cheek, him busy with kneading dough, when he turns as to speak and their lips lock.

One kiss turns into two, then five and she forgets how to breathe. But it makes her head spin in the most pleasant way.

* * *

Arguments happen. Over small things, big things. Nelaros never shouts, it’s her who’s more hotheaded. And he isn’t violent like the men or women she heard about. If he would ever hit her, she’d hit him back.

After, they go to sleep with their backs turned and wake up with his head on her chest, tufts of his hair sticking in every direction and she can’t stay mad at him when he looks like that. 

They learn to talk about what frustrates them, but it’s hard sometimes. Not that _hard_ ever stopped Saskia, and she can see, Nelaros is the same.

* * *

“I don't think baby will fix things like everybody says so.” Soris grumbles, helping her straighten the sheets. He’s always around laundry days, doing it with her to save on runs for water and soap flakes. 

Things weren’t so great between Valora and him and she hums, not sure what could she say on the matter. 

“I talked to Alarith and-“ he blushes under her gaze and glances down. 

Alarith the shopkeep, Soris’ old crush. She shouldn’t be so surprised, with him commenting he’d trade his wife with her husband as soon as he saw them. What Soris does and with who is his business. As long as there’s no bloodshed and Saskia doesn’t have to haul him out from another fight he found himself by accident. Or break some noses, so they stay away from him. She’s quiet and after a moment he starts to chat again, his smile crooked, the lines of his shoulders a bit less tense.

No, she thinks, babies shouldn’t be expected to mend things they didn’t break.

* * *

“Do you want to have children?”

“Do you?”

“... Yes.”

“Me too.”

“... But what if I can’t have any?”

“Then we could make home for someone who doesn’t have one.”

“That’s… yes, we could.”

* * *

One day they move the furniture in their kitchen to spar. 

He shows her how to properly hold a sword to avoid injuries and few moves he spied from Highever knights and guards. She shows him what Adaia taught her, bits of hand to hand combat still fresh in her memory and he matches her in speed and strength. 

The limited space is a problem, but they can’t exactly start to play fight in the streets. Nelaros laughs when he ends pinned on the floor under Saskia, the dust moths flying in the air, rays of light from the small window making his hair shine gold. Her scar pulls with the smile splitting her face, Nelaros’s palm cupping her jaw, thumb gently rubbing the skin and they meet halfway, the brush of their lips making her heart sing as she melts into the kiss.

* * *

Plague strikes hard and fast, spreading in their tight packed community like a fire. It figures it’s humans who carried it over, soldiers or deserters from the South. Though most ignored few elven people with wild eyes and even wilder stories about monsters eating flesh and dragging corpses underground, some still screaming. _Lunatics,_ all of them.

The food prices skyrocketed that summer. With illness crippling those who were working, many start to starve. Saskia has to boil water at least twice to avoid getting a stomach ache and silently prays to whoever is listening that the plague doesn’t appear in their household.

But it does and it takes Nelaros.

It’s a fever that doesn’t go away and makes him dizzy, fingers clumsy and without strength. She watches over him at night when he tosses and turns and can’t get up to go to the privy. She helps him and washes away the sweat with wet cloth, boiling and cooling water for him to drink. It gets worse before he’s better and she’s afraid he won’t make it, with what little of medicine Cyrion got by some miracle not doing any good. 

Then the healers set their shop at one of the tenement houses, renting so much space she’s not sure what had to happen with families once living there. Probably gone as well. She hasn’t been paying much attention to what happens outside her own household and nearest neighbours, the news of daily deaths numbing her with time. She helps whenever she can, but between work and taking care of her sick husband, she doesn’t really have time for more than restless sleep.

The healers, Tevinters, take in Nelaros as soon as they see him. Promising a quick recovery after a week or so in their hospice. She asks daily about him and they repeat the same thing they tell the crowd in front of the doors - no visits allowed and all patients are on a good way to health.

But the time flies and no one who stepped into the hospice comes back.

* * *

The group is led by an elf. 

Tall, in light dark armor and _armed_. The other one with markings on his face is armed as well, the light step and deceptively relaxed posture hiding the fact that he pays close attention to his surroundings. A human soldier, a woman with a bow, daggers at her hips and an older woman with silver hair. They stride in like they own the place and wary scowls track their path. 

Saskia notices them as soon as they appear, walking some distance behind them, as she’s on her way to hospice. Demanding answers and planning to use force this time. She has to see Nelaros, she waited enough. She’s sick and tired of hearing the same thing every day. 

She wants her husband _back._

Shianni is the one who talks with strangers, when she nears the crowd and she steps close to them, standing at her side with a glare on her face. 

“Do they bother you, cousin?”

They all look at her at once as soon as she’s near, though two of the group saw her much earlier than others. A woman with the bow and the blond elf, with a smile on his face that is so out of place, it makes her blink when he quickly looks her up and down. The smirk turns sharp before his attention is on the black haired elf, talking to him in a voice too low for her to hear over the cries of angry mob. 

It looks the people of alienage finally had enough of healers’ bullshit. Her gaze locks with cold eyes of the group leader, and she stares back tilting her chin up. Something shifts in his neutral expression, the look on his serene face making her skin itch. Some would find him attractive, Saskia thinks, but with this man she starts to believe about a dislike at the first sight. She breathes easier when he glances back to his companions. 

“I’ll go in from the front, Zevran checks the back alley, the rest of you wait outside. Wynne,” he nods at the older woman, voice quiet but commanding, “I want you to observe the situation from here, see if Vints try something when they find out they’re under attack.” 

She nods, “I’m sure they’d want to use crowd as a shield.” 

Saskia stiffens when she gets an idea of what they’re planning to do. “You’re getting inside. I’m going with you.”

“No you’re not.” 

She steps closer to the man, back straight and shoulders pulled back, grey eyes full of fire. He doesn’t even flinch when she stands before him, inches of space between them. 

From the corner of her eye he sees his companions shifting. “Yes, I am. I know those buildings better than you and if you’re clever, you’ll take me with you.” 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at her and she knows a calculating gaze when she sees one.

“Do you have a name, woman? Or do I call you an _annoyance_ when I’m going to address you?” She scoffs at his drawl, stepping back now that she sees she’s won. 

“Saskia.” She adds at one raised brow, “Tabris.”

His jaw works for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly when he looks at her and glances at Shianni. “Tabris.” He repeats slowly, as he’s testing the word. “Two. Weren’t there three of you redheads?”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You say you know buildings plans? Make yourself useful then. Though don’t expect us to protect you if it comes to trouble.”

“I can handle myself. Wait,” She calls after him when he turns to walk away, the rest of his group spreading already. “You didn’t tell me your name.” Rude.

There’s a twitch to his lips as he curtly answers, “Vergil Surana.” Her eyes widen a bit, the name of their old neighbour, a question on the tip of her tongue, but it’s Shianni that beats her to it. “Surana as in aunt ‘Toria’s kid? You look old _enough._ ” She gives him a once over. 

“ _You’re_ little Surana? I thought you vanished because you finally coughed out your lungs.”

He scowls at Saskia, before schooling his expression back to his neutral one, though she could swear he rolls his eyes at them. 

“Whatever. I suggest you get a move on if you want to go with us.”

* * *

Slavers. 

The hospice was a cover for slavers.

She breathes hard, the bones in her sword arm rattled beyond measure. She didn’t have the chance to fight this much and so viciously for ages. She killed this time. Got wounded and healed by a woman mage, Wynne, her hands firm but gentle. Saw Surana’s group fighting around each other like well practiced dancers. 

A mage, figures why he vanished all those years ago. Though in alienage it wasn’t and isn’t so unusual when a kid doesn't show up one day. But a Grey Warden to boost? She heard them talking about prisons and queen and just blurted her question when she heard the name of the so called traitors in between fights.

So the Blight is real.

But it can be real as much as it wants, Nelaros being taken by Tevinters slavers and missing isn’t any less real.

He’s _missing._

Taken with last _shipment,_ Valendrian wearily says when they let frightened people out of the cages. Ushered in like animals. Her limbs feel so heavy she has to sit down, head between her knees as the blood rushing through her veins makes her deaf. Heavy pounding of her heart makes her ribcage hurt as much as bruises and gashes do. 

He’s gone.

Slavers.

She let them take him.

She can’t breathe, a scream stuck in her throat, hands curled in her short hair. 

Saskia doesn’t see amber eyes taking her in, a cunning glimpse sparking and fading away as Vergil looks at her broken form. He calls his group to retreat after they take what they need and silently leave.

* * *

The wound on her chest aches with every move, blood soaking the makeshift bandages and the front of her dirty shirt. But she can’t give up now, she thinks while thrusting the sword at the gut of the nearest monster and watches it gurgle, barely avoiding rusted mace to her face. It falls when she finally pulls out the blade and swings it at the beast advancing at her on the left, wincing at the impact, as it nearly numbs her entire side. 

The pieces of armor she looted from corpses of city guards are more of a hindrance than protection, but she can’t complain when the part on her shoulder only dents under the blow of short sword. 

Fire, screams, noise of battle and inhuman growls pierce the air. 

Her focus narrows to the blows she exchanges with the creature, it’s muzzle pulled back in terrifying sneer and it hisses at her, growl tearing out of its throat and she growls back, pushing hard until red takes over, feeding off her fury.

She doesn’t remember what happened, only her greedily gulping air full of smoke and terror, fingers finally losing the hold on her sword as she falls to her knees, blurry sight on alinage’s gate, flimsy wood shattering in splinters under the force of a hit of a monster _so big_ , she’s sure she’s hallucinating. 

It’s over. 

She can’t get up, but she tries anyway, hands struggling with grip on her weapon, _so heavy_ and she’s too slow, and one, three, ten of the creatures are flooding through the breach, poorly aimed arrows going over their heads and sticking in places that won’t do much damage. 

They’re doomed. 

But she refuses to go on her knees, and she spits under the feet of the nearest darkspawn, bloody and stubborn. Her mother didn’t die on her knees and she won’t either. 

But it seems she doesn’t have to, sudden flash blinding her and the noise of lightning cracking, cut out howls of monsters trashing in the dirt, the nasty smell of burnt flesh hitting her like a wave. She blinks, barely standing, lunging at the one grabbing her shoulder.

“Still alive I see.”

She squeezes her eyes until the spots stop dancing in her vision and squints at the man in dark armor, holding her wrist. The brace must have fallen off, she thinks dumbly.

“Stand back, we’re taking over from now.”

“We?” She rasps and a whoosh of arrows being loosened, hitting straight at their targets has her whip her head back and falter on her feet, and Surana grunts as she collides with his side, but he doesn’t let her fall. Archers and soldiers fill in the alienage, and judging by the shrieks of beasts they’re successful. Surana’s hold on her slackens as he moves to join the fight. “Hide somewhere.” 

“I can’t, I have to-”

Hard eyes pin hers as he leans down. “You did enough. Hide and let me finish it.” And he turns on his heel, not waiting for her answer, taking away the crisp air surrounding him, blueish fire licking his arm.

She wants to watch, she wants to see what he’ll do, but her vision swims and she lets herself be dragged behind closed doors by frantic hands.

Hours later, there’s a blinding light coming from the top of the highest tower in town and after, a wave so strong, it blows away few wooden roofs. 

Then silence.

* * *

Soris comes back after a month from his elope with the Dalish, sheepish and defeated.

“I’m not suited to live this close to nature.” He stays with Alarith, as him and Valora are officially finished. At least Valora’s new partner seems to suit her better.

Saskia can’t really find her place in the aftermath of it all. She helps with rebuilding of the alienage, working with others and even getting paid for it. Word is the crown funds reconstruction of the city, and the coins poured into it are distributed equally. That can’t be true, though, as she’s seen other parts being rebuilt much faster and with better materials. The districts where the city’s finest had their residence were hit the hardest and surprise, surprise, they have to get their estates back in prime condition the quickest. 

She tries to lose herself in work, everyday tired to the bone, her nights almost dreamless when she’s able to fall asleep. Everyday is the same. Get up, eat something, go to work, be back at nightfall, go to sleep. 

She can’t go on like this. 

There’s a gaping bleeding wound in her chest and she isn’t thinking about her scarred skin. 

She thinks about Nelaros.

If he’s still alive. If he is in pain. 

The golden ring on her finger a reminder of his promise to her. She made him a promise as well.

She doesn’t have the coin nor the connections to track him. But one day, when she hears about Warden’s outpost in Amaranthine, an idea takes roots in her head and doesn’t let go until she packs her things and hitches a ride with merchants going to port city, acting as a mercenary guard, heavy longsword strapped to her back.

* * *

The courtyard is gloomy and there’s something in the air that makes her skin prickle. She feels like she’s watched, but she marches through the inner gates, spare guards just glancing at her.

She has to be in luck, as she spots the man she was looking for standing near the statue with an older human. 

They watch her as she approaches, the frown on Surana’s face clearing as he recognizes her. 

“I want to be warden.”

He tilts his head to the side, “Good day to you too, Tabris.”

She grimaces, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re in need of warriors. I’m good fighter.”

“And why would I need _you_ in particular?”

“I have skill.”

“And? Can you take orders?” He smiles lightly, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “From what I saw you have bit of a problem with authority.” 

She grits her teeth, “Cut the bullshit. You’re authority here so it wouldn’t be a problem. I can adjust.”

Surana looks at her, gloved fist under his chin. “And what’s there for you? Surely you have a family you could come back to? If you’re a warden, you’re cut off from this life.”

She swallows, glancing down, “I don’t have anything more to lose.” 

“So you want to become a martyr? I don’t need another warden with a death wish. Waste of time.” His words are meant to cut and they would if Saskia wouldn’t be so damn _exhausted_ in her anger at the world. 

“I’ve heard you’re someone when you’re a warden.” _I want to be someone more than elven woman from alienage,_ she doesn’t say as she stares straight at him. “You’re a mage and they answer to you.” _I’m armed elf who wants her husband back, whatever the way._

“You have an agenda.”

She rolls her eyes, “Who doesn’t.”

“I could demand you to tell me, or else.” 

He’s toying with her, testing her patience? “Then I’d tell you to fuck off.” Surprisingly, his smile sharpens, just as she bites her tongue. She’s sure she just insulted her way _out_ of wardens before she ever got the chance to be _on_ it.

But it doesn’t seem to be the case.

“I’ve seen you fight. You could be better.” She bristles at his lofty tone, ready to tell him where he can shove his opinion, but next words leave her jaw hanging open.

“Varel, prepare the joining, please.”

* * *

Surana is the last one she sees when she drinks from the chalice, his eyes guarded and somber.

The liquid is like a fire in her throat, then the world tilts and she blacks away.

* * *

“Still alive.” 

He helps her sit up as he crouches near her elbow. The nausea makes her throat close, then she coughs to get rid of the lingering taste of rot. 

“Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Saskia Tabris.”


End file.
